by Jeannie Prinsen

when I reach for it, fumbling, long before dawn.
they crackle in a blackness my eyes have not yet
adjusted to. no comforting shapes of chair, table,
dresser, so I go by feel, by the plush sizzle and
sputter between my fingers. synthetic fireflies
are surprisingly good company in the lonely
hours. don’t we all grope in the dark for a wink
of light, however dry and cold, for a soft
place to touch, as the blanket of night pulls
back, filling the room with stars.

Jeannie Prinsen lives with her husband, daughter, and son in Kingston, Ontario, where she works as a copyeditor for a news organization. Her writing has appeared in Dust Poetry, Relief Journal, and elsewhere. Find her online at jeannieprinsen.substack.com and jeannieprinsen.bsky.social.